


to build a home

by akaiiko



Series: Zutara Month 2016 [4]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Zutara Month 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaiiko/pseuds/akaiiko
Summary: “I’m just… Fucking… Look, my heart burns for you.” Katara’s the most terrifying girl in the world. Zuko’s kind of in love with her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am blatantly counting this as Days 5 & 6 & 7\. That's totally how this works, right? Also, get in bitches we're going old school fandom with a genuine high school AU. (I'm having flashbacks to the mid-00s...)

For most of Zuko's life the title of "most terrifying girl in school" belonged to his own sister. It had to do with all the cliche reasons like being class president, valedictorian, and captain of the women's volleyball team. Also, frankly, the fact that she's a bit of a psychopath. (See: the time she set her ex-boyfriend's house on fire.)

Then, four months into senior year, Zuko gets kicked out of his house and out of Sozin Preparatory. Uncle picks him up from the hospital. They move to a new city. Eight months later, Zuko starts over as the oldest senior at Republic High.

No matter what Uncle says, it's different. Social hierarchies he's known his whole life no longer apply. For example, Zuko's no longer "that failure brother of Azula". Now he's "that broody gangbanger who's definitely killed a man" which...isn't much of an improvement, actually. And the most terrifying girl in school? Well, that title belongs to one Katara Foster.

* * *

"So what're you in for?"

Zuko resists the urge to roll his eyes. Here's what he's figured out two weeks into the year: all roads end in detention, do not trust the cafeteria food, and public school girls have a _thing_ for redeeming bad boys. So that line? Zuko's heard it every. Single. Day.

There's a hum above him and to his left. Blind spot. Kind of literally since it's his bad eye. Zuko doesn't turn to look at her. Any minute now she's going to get the idea. Any minute.

Instead, the girl pulls out the chair next to his and drops her bag on the desk. There's more noise. Like she can't pull out her textbooks and pens and shit quietly. But at least she's not talking to him even if she's still up in his space. There are so many other places she could be sitting. As in literally any of the other twenty desks that make up the classroom used for after-school detention. After a few minutes she quiets down. Got all her shit sorted out, he guesses, and now she's scratching away at...homework, probably. Which is fine. Zuko's been trying to ignore her in favor of chemistry equations.

Probably that's the weakness in his strategy. Chemistry is boring as fuck. Girls who smell faintly of coconut, who talk to him but don't pester, who hum old school hip-hop under their breaths are not boring.

Someone should give him a medal because Zuko makes it through all six of the equations due for tomorrow's class before he finally gives in.

He promptly regrets every single life choice that led him to this moment. Zuko's sitting there like an idiot. Lips parted to comment on her apparent love for Tupac but brain failing to come up with anything other than: _oh fuck me_.

Katara Foster looks over at him with a half smile on her lips and her wild curls tumbling over her slender shoulders. "Hey," she says. Like this is an everyday occurrence. Like they _talk_ to each other. "I'm Katara Foster. Junior. We have chemistry together."

"Uhm..." he manages to choke out. It's not his finest moment.

"What's your name?" she asks without missing a beat.

"Zuko." Short. To the point. No room to fuck it up. Zuko wishes that she'd stop talking to him. Stop looking at him. Stop doing anything that involves him.

"Nice to meet you." The worst part is she seems to genuinely mean that. One corner of her mouth pulls up before the other when she gives him a full smile. It's a half second difference, a minor imperfection, but it knocks the breath clean out of him.

The bell rings while he's still floundering for words. Or maybe just air. Katara packs up far more quickly than she'd unpacked. Zuko watches her in a kind of daze. When she's shoved the last of her pencils into the front pouch, she turns back to him, dazzling smile still firmly in place. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Maybe we can compare notes before class."

Someone, probably her brother based on their coloring and his impatient " _c'mon_ , I need to meet Suki at the DQ!", sticks his head in to summon Katara. Just like that, she's gone, only a lingering smile over her shoulder to prove she was ever there at all.

Here's what he's figured out in the hour of detention: from a distance she's terrifying. Class president, valedictorian, captain of the swim team. Backpack pinned with slogans like #BlackLivesMatter and #NoDAPL and #YesAllWomen. Volunteer of the Year at nearly every non-profit in walking distance. Kind to animals, old people, and freshmen. Popular. Beautiful.

All these things Zuko knew. Acknowledged, even, in the abstract. Because from a distance, she's terrifying. Up close? Katara Foster is a goddamn _revelation_.

* * *

Weirdly enough, they almost become...friends? Zuko's really not sure if that's the right word for it but it's the best one he has. Because Katara insinuates herself into his life with terrifying ease.

Somehow she convinces Song—who'd spent the first few weeks of school giving Zuko looks that were equal part pitying and longing—to switch lab partners in chemistry. Song still looks at him, but now it's from the other side of the room. It's not so bad even if Katara can't deal with the Bunsen burner to save her life.

Then she introduces him to Sokka, her brother, who looks Zuko over skeptically then asks if he's any good at ultimate frisbee. It turns out he is. This proves to be a bonding point. Somehow this also means that Zuko has to join the school team and suddenly he's having after-practice pizza at the Foster's house with all his teammates plus Katara.

Along the way she does little things, like convincing him to apply for the job at the library with Mr. Tong and picking him to be her partner in gym, that slowly transition his place in the hierarchy from "that broody gangbanger who's definitely killed a man" to "that broody gangbanger who's definitely killed a man but is probably an alright guy." Which is an improvement. At least he stops getting so much detention and the girls mostly back off.

Zuko's grateful for these things but he can't help wonder if they're friends or if he's her project. It sucks. A little. But then she texts him at midnight to ask about the molecular density of hydrogen—like he'd fucking know—and he forgets to be anything but happy.

* * *

"Hey, what're you doing tonight?" Katara's voice sounds entirely too chipper. The way it does when she wants something from him. Or, well, anyone. And as she does when she wants something, she doesn't wait for an answer, just charges forward. "I'm on candy dispensing duty because Sokka's going to Suki's game and Dad's on duty at the station and Gran Gran hates small children. You should definitely come hang out and help me hand out candy. You'll be here by six, right?"

Zuko knows when to admit defeat. "Yeah, I'll be there by six."

"Great!" Katara chirps.

Actually, he's there by 5:55, which is some kind of omen. Not one he can decipher. But an omen anyway.

Katara greets him with a wide smile. She's dressed witch costume that's not anywhere near the neighborhood of "slutty". (Zuko is not disappointed. He's _not_.) "You made it!"

"Of course," he says. He tries to sound long-suffering, but he mostly ends up sounding fond. Even to his own ears. Which probably explains why she rocks back on her heels and keeps smiling at him. Oh, he's so fucked.

Then she realizes he's not dressed up. A faint scowl transforms her features and she points at him with her broom. Menacingly. "You need a costume."

Zuko looks down at himself. Jeans, work boots, a red flannel shirt. Weather appropriate. But not anything close to a costume. "It was short notice," he says, looking back up at her. Which is, for the record, entirely true. Given that she'd called him around three in the afternoon.

This doesn't appease her. Instead she narrows her eyes a bit and then says, in a considering tone of voice, "Maybe if we got you a beanie and a mug you could be an ironic hipster."

"No."

"Then how would you feel about lumberjack? I'm pretty sure my dad has an axe in the shed."

"...fine."

So they tromp through her house and out into the backyard. Katara sends him into the shed—which hasn't been cleaned or organized in months—to find the axe. Then she laughs at him when he comes out holding an axe and covered in dust. She takes a couple playful wacks at him with her broom before actually helping him beat the dust off.

For the next three hours they hand out candy to small children. Katara coos over all the costumes and genuinely seems impressed by even the shoddiest ones. Some of the neighborhood kids, the ones who actually know her, get a kick out of her pretending to put spells on them. Weirdly enough, the kids also seem taken with Zuko. At one point another lumberjack shows up—all of three feet tall—and tentatively asks for a picture with Zuko. Afterwards, Katara shows Zuko the picture she took on her phone, in which he looks fondly bemused. They blow through twelve bags of candy and it's by all accounts a rousing success of a Halloween.

After, he mutters something about going home maybe and she tosses her head back with a laugh. "Well then what'm I gonna do with all the leftover candy?" Which makes it sound like they have a lot more left than they actually do.

Zuko's not too proud to take the offered excuse. He loyally follows her past her Gran Gran sleeping in front of a UFC prize fight on TV and up the stairs to her room.

Katara's room is a lot like Katara. Neat, organized, clean. Everything's done in shades of cream and blue. All her academic and swimming awards have been lined up on her bookshelf. The calendar on her desk is color coded and has every single day filled in with at least three different things. A handmade sign (does that say Slut Walk 2016?) is tucked halfway behind her desk.

And even though he's seen her room in passing it feels like something important when he actually steps into the room for the first time. It's a feeling that sits in his ribcage and makes his breathing funny and his hands shaky. Zuko swallows and looks at Katara.

She settles onto her bed and says quietly, "So here's my room." There's a slightly wary look to her, like she's waiting for him to say something dickish.

"What's Slut Walk?" he asks. Which is maybe little dickish but he doesn't want to say any platitudes like _it's nice_. And he thinks she gets that because she rolls her eyes and smiles and launches into an explanation that takes the better part of an hour and half a bag of mini-Snickers.

* * *

Republic City gets its first snowfall in the second week of December. They'd all been out at the movies when it started. When they get out into the theater lobby after the superhero movie (Suki's pick) it's to the horror that is three inches of fresh snow.

Okay, so maybe only horror on Zuko's part. What can he say? Growing up in a desert kind of built in an innate suspicion of anything that falls from the sky.

Sokka shrugs and turns to Suki. "Arcade until the 6:30 showing?" Because of course they're going to watch the movie again. Zuko honestly has no idea how Suki puts up with Sokka. And he says that with the acknowledgment that Sokka's probably his second best friend in the entire world.

There's a devilish glint in Suki's eyes. "Only if you're not afraid to get your ass kicked by a girl!"

With those fighting words, the two take off toward the arcade, hip checking each other and shrieking like four year olds. Zuko takes it all back. Suki may hide it better but she's just as bad as Sokka.

"I'm glad he has her." Zuko looks over to Katara. The expression on her face is almost wistful. "After Yue..." A familiar unfamiliarity, that name, like so many things in her life. Zuko wants to know all her stories. Fuck. Katara shakes herself and glances up at him. "Anyway. Do you want to join them?"

Probably he should. But he shakes his head a little.

Katara tilts her head. "Too many lights and too much noise, huh?" Which is exactly it even though he has no idea how she knew that. Zuko can try to wrap his brain around it but she's wrapping her hand around his wrist. "C'mon, there's a coffee shop near here."

Sure, Zuko's not especially thrilled to go out into the snow. (See: it's innately horrifying.) But Zuko'll follow Katara anywhere when she smiles at him. "Okay," he says.

They make it two blocks. Katara's texting Suki their excuses and telling Zuko a story about the time her next door neighbor Aang tried to ride a deer. One minute she's at his side. The next...well, she's at his side, but she's on her ass and grabbing at her ankle with a too loud, "Shit!"

Zuko drops to his knees next to her immediately. Gently, he pushes her hands away and feels along her ankle in a practiced motion. Nothing's broken but he's willing to bet it's twisted. Beneath his hands, her skin is warm and soft. Zuko can't quite contain his impulse to rub his thumb along the tender skin of her inner ankle. "You'll be okay," he forces himself to say. "These aren't great shoes for walking in snow, though."

"You're telling me." Katara sounds kind of breathless and he looks up, worried that she'd injured something other than her ankle, but she doesn't look pained. In fact, when she catches his eye, her dark cheeks flush. "W-we should probably get up. Before the snow soaks through our jeans."

Too late for that, he thinks. But. "Okay." Zuko gets up first. Grips Katara's forearms and pulls her up as well. The ankle boots that started this all begin to slide out from under Katara again and she only keeps upright because of Zuko's grip. And while Katara tries to get her feet under her, Zuko makes a command decision only slightly influenced by the memory of her skin against his.

"Holy—Zuko, you can't—I'm _heavy—_ oh my god, you're such a..." Katara's voice has gone breathless again.

"Just get on," he says. Gruff to hide the fact that he's blushing. Part of him thinks she's not actually going to do it, but then he feels her arms wrap tentatively around his shoulders, and her legs circle his waist. Zuko grips her thighs and straightens up. The weight of her on his back takes a moment to get used to but he figures he's got a better chance of combating black ice with his work boots than she does.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Instead of answering, Zuko starts walking, keeping a careful eye for more ice. "Right then." It takes a couple of minutes, but Katara ever so slowly seems to relax into their new situation. Slides back into the earlier story about her neighbor.

And Zuko very determinedly does not think about the press of her breasts against his back, or the warm rush of her breath against his ear, or the flex of her thighs where they wrap around his waist. Or the fact that if she were clinging to his front instead of his back, he could hold her by her hips, push up into her slender body, bite at her neck. Or the urge to curl his body over her, keep her safe and warm, kiss her until she's breathless with laughter and wanting and _him_.

It's a long walk to the coffee shop.

* * *

That night Zuko jerks off twice to the thought of Katara's everything and realizes that he's really, really, _really_ fucked.

* * *

The school finally decides it's time to enforce the rule about students eating in the cafeteria instead of strewn across the front lawn. The timing of the rule probably has something to do with the snow. What this results in is a never ending pulse of teenagers crammed too close together.

Zuko's not sure what he resents more: the noisy cafeteria or the silent white shit falling from the sky. (Probably the cafeteria.) Makes for an interesting mental exercise while he slowly eats through the PB&J Uncle packed for him.

When he takes a sip of his water, he sees Katara across the cafeteria. She's in the lunch line with Sokka and Suki, but she's looking at him. Zuko waves. It feels like literally the most awkward thing he's done in his life but it gets him one of those patented Blinding Smiles that do weird, awful things to his heart. So, basically, worth it.

That's when his view gets blocked by a guy in a leather jacket and a Grateful Dead tee shirt. Zuko blinks and moves his gaze up. Fuck, what's this guy's name again? Jerry? Jed? Jet? Probably Jet. He remembers laughing at the guy's name and asking if it was one of those made-up goth names. Kind of a dick move, in retrospect. That probably explains why they got into a fistfight a week into the school year. Well, that and the fact that Jet had been kind of pissed about Zuko edging in on his "rebel without a cause" shtick.

God, he kind of hates this guy.

Jet looks him over in a way that's probably supposed to be threatening. "Heard you were seen with Katara this weekend." Okay then. Zuko raises his one eyebrow and waits. "If you know what's good for you, Himura, you'll stay away from Katara." Definitely supposed to be threatening. Also definitely failing.

"No," Zuko says. Takes another sip of his water while maintaining eye contact with Jet because fuck Jet, that's why.

It takes all of thirty seconds for the rejection to sink in. Zuko can tell the exact moment it does, too, because Jet's hands clench into fists and his sharp eyebrows draw together. "Fuck you, Himura."

Original. Zuko goes back to eating his sandwich. There's only so much provoking Jet can get away with in the cafeteria. Sure, the lunch ladies don't give many shits but they wouldn't tolerate an all out fight. Apparently Jet didn't get that memo.

Hands slam down on the table with enough force to rattle Zuko's water bottle. "Look, asshole," Jet snarls. "You're just a fucking project to her. She feels _sorry_ for you." Again, original. "You know why? Because she knows. We all know. About how you got kicked out of your fancy school. About how your dad didn't want your pathetic ass. About how your mom left you because she didn't give a _shit_ about—"

Zuko launches himself clean over the table with a roar that brings all noise in the cafeteria to a halt. For staggering heartbeats all he can see is Jet's smug face. Fists beat out a steady, relentless rhythm on the bastard's body. Jet hits him back but it's fucking nothing. Nothing he hadn't learned to survive from the time his mother left him all alone. All alone. All...

"Zuko!" Small hands grab at his shoulders. Pull at him. "Zuko, stop!" The voice is familiar but not. Pitched high with genuine fear. "Zuko, you're going to kill him!" Yeah, he fucking well is. "Zuko, please!" Tears.

And he pauses, fist still pulled back and ready for another strike. Some of the haze clears. Beneath him Jet's a shaky, bruised mess with a bloodied mouth. Not smug. Not even making eye contact. There're still hands on him, knotted in his shirt, pulling at him insistently.

Slowly, so slowly it aches, he lets go. He stands up. He looks at the girl still clutching his shirt.

Katara's face is streaked with tears. One of her hands releases his shirt and seizes his wrist. Ignoring the crowd around them, she leads him toward the double doors that open onto the front lawn, drags him away from the carnage he created. God, she's still crying, even as she finds their way to a sheltered alcove that's clearly a favored smoking spot. "Zuko—"

"Did you know?" he growls. Part of him doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to know if he's really just a project to her because she feels sorry for his fucking miserable life. But that part's not in control.

"W-what..."

"Did you know about my mom?" Because that's the part that hurts worst. That's the rawest spot in his heart _._ The one wound he's never shared with anyone.

Even before she haltingly nods, he knows. Zuko takes a few stumbling steps back. Rips his arm out of her grip. It doesn't matter that it's still snowing. That there's easily a foot of snow on the ground. That he's not wearing a coat and doesn't have any of his things. That he owes it to her, his best friend in the world, to listen to her explanation. Zuko turns and he runs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for the kind reception. This chapter is a little heavy on the angst. I promise it gets lighter next time.

Uncle meets him at the door when he gets home. Zuko’s not thrilled by the expression on Uncle’s face that says “I’m disappointed, get ready to be lectured over tea” and also “Are you alright, nephew?” But it’s probably a good thing Uncle’s there. Zuko doesn’t have his keys.

After stomping his boots to clear them of snow he steps past his uncle into the warm foyer of the house. Uncle closes the door with a decisive sounding “hm” that could mean so very many things. For now, he ignores it, toeing off his boots and then walking for the kitchen. That PB&J is long gone after he’d run the nearly four miles from school to the suburbs.

Of course Uncle follows him. Puts a kettle on while Zuko pulls out the leftover stirfry and shoves it into the microwave. They studiously pretend that Zuko didn’t just show up in the middle of a school day with a rapidly purpling bruise under one eye.

It holds for the ten or so minutes it takes them to get settled around the battered kitchen table. Then Uncle comes in with the opening volley. “I received the most interesting call from a young lady.”

Zuko hesitates, a forkful of stirfry halfway to his mouth, before hastily shoving it the rest of the way into his mouth. He can’t talk if he’s chewing.

“Katara Foster,” Uncle supplies. As though any other ‘young lady’ would call Zuko’s house. “It was her suggestion that I be on the look out for you since you had left school without your things.” A delicate pause. “Which she assured me she would deliver along with your homework this afternoon.”

“Okay,” Zuko says. He continues to shovel food into his mouth. Keeps his face carefully disinterested.

Seems unlikely, but there’s a chance that Katara didn’t tell Uncle about the fight. That revelation will come one way or another. Zuko can’t figure the school would just ignore an out and out brawl in the cafeteria. But maybe he can spin it. Say that it was over dumb teenage boy things and Zuko’s infamous temper. Anything so that Uncle won’t give him that sad, searching look and ask if he’s sure he doesn’t want to see a counselor.

“Zuko, I must say, she sounded quite worried about you.” There’s this tone to Uncle’s voice. The carefully prodding one. The ‘you know people care about you, right?’ one. The heart rending one. “In fact, it sounded rather like she’d been crying.”

Fuck. Zuko throws his fork down and sets his jaw. The last thing he wants to remember right now is the fact he’d left Katara crying and alone.

When he remembers that, he thinks about her trudging back to the cafeteria (alone and crying) and he thinks about her calling Uncle from his cellphone (crying) and he thinks about her gathering up his things (alone). It makes him want to punch the person responsible only that person is himself. It’s this awful feeling curling up tight in his gut and he _hates it_.

“I’m going to go work on homework,” Zuko says. He goes to put his plate in the sink while Iroh lets the silence between them stretch thin. It’s only when he slumps onto his bed that he realizes he has no homework to work on. And Iroh knew that.

Like she promised, Katara shows up that afternoon with Zuko’s backpack and homework. Zuko doesn’t go downstairs, even though he kind of wants to, because he’s not sure how he could look at her right now. Instead, he looks at his hands—reddened knuckles and old scars—while he listens to the lilting music of her voice. One day he’ll learn how to deal with the guilt that lives in his ribcage. Maybe the same day he learns what to do with the love that lives alongside it.

* * *

 

The in-school suspension he gets for trying to beat Jet’s face in is probably less than he deserves. Come Monday, when the sentence begins, Jet’s still got a black eye and a split lip and a newly developed sense of wariness. Serves him right. Zuko wouldn’t take back a single one of those punches.

But it still doesn’t explain why Zuko’s not suffering anything worse than working through his schoolwork in the library under the watchful gaze of Mr. Tong.

When he dares to ask Vice Principal Piandao why he got off so light, the older man squints at Zuko thoughtfully, then says: “You’re on your way to being a good man, Zuko, if you keep trying.” Which is exactly the kind of metaphoric bullshit that Uncle likes to pull. Except said in a much dryer, much more exasperated way.

Zuko’s not a fucking idiot, so he lets it go.

* * *

 

Katara shows up a minute after the fourth period bell rings, signalling their shared lunch, and she’s breathing hard in a way that suggests she must’ve sprinted from her last class. “I miss you,” she blurts out.

“You...what?” So he’s a little thrown. Most of the versions of this moment he’d practiced in his head involved both of them apologizing and then mutually agreeing to pretend that nothing’d happened. Not. Well, not this.

Pretty much the only warning he gets is the general aura of....of _wobbliness_ to her, like her edges are frayed and her center of balance is gone and she’s just not quite as steady as she’s always, always, always been.

Then Katara’s blue eyes—like the ocean, like the sky, like everything good he’s ever done—go glassy with tears. She lets out a hiccupy sob and tightens her grip on her backpack straps to white knuckled. “I _miss_ you,” she says. “You didn’t come to the door or answer any of my calls or text me back and I...” Oh.

Zuko reaches toward her awkwardly. He really wants to touch her but there’s this library table between them and he’s never seen her like this. God, what’s he supposed to do?

While he tries to figure out what the fuck’s going on, she keeps going. Words coming faster, tripping off her tongue “I’m _sorry_ , okay, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I was trying not to hurt you because I thought you’d tell me? Eventually? But you didn’t and I thought maybe we just, like, weren’t _there_ yet,” staccato fast like she’s afraid he’s going to stop her.

And he does. Stop her, that is, because she starts to actually cry.

Zuko half-vaults-and-half-skids across the library table as her voice warbles, her nose snuffles, and her cheeks stain with tear tracks. His knees hook almost painful over the lip of the table. His hands grasp her slender, sweater clad upper arms. And he pulls her into him, curving himself over and around her body, like he can somehow protect her from all the things that would hurt her.

Katara hiccups loudly against his neck and the movement knocks the top of her head against his jaw. Zuko doesn’t even care.

They stay like that for a few minutes. It’s really fucking awkward. She’s still wearing her backpack so his arms don’t quite fit around her the way he’d like. He’s way too aware of the fact that she’s pressed against him from shoulder to hips. It’s painful quiet except for her crying and his shushing.

“I’m sorry.”There’s only a ghost in the faint tremble of her voice as she says again, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says.

One of her hands creeps between their bodies, rests against his chest, pushing gently. Zuko takes the hint and lets his arms drop away from her. Part of him expects her to step back but she doesn’t. Instead she stays in the harbor of his limbs and tips her head back to look at him. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

Not what he would’ve expected as her first question. But fair enough. Probably he should’ve known this was coming.

Zuko inclines his head so he doesn’t have to look her in the eyes when he answers. “I didn’t know how to talk to you about it.” His eyes focus on her hand, still planted firmly against his chest, and then her wrist. “I still don’t.”

Katara inhales sharply even as her fingers clench around the fabric of his hoodie. “ _Zuko_...”

God help him but he can’t even bear looking at her wrist anymore. He turns his head away, looks at some middle distant carpet, rolls his shoulders to shake loose tension that’s not going away. “Katara, half the time I can’t tell if I’m your friend or your project.”

Another sharp inhale. Three heartbeats of silence. One slow, barely there sigh. “I’m sorry,”  she says. It feels like the thousandth time and it’s not that he’s sick of hearing it but he’s sick of her feeling like she needs to say it and that’s almost like being sick of hearing it. (Or maybe he’s just sick with the realization that if she’s apologizing then he’s her project.) Zuko doesn’t know how to verbalize all or any of that so instead he keeps his head turned.

The knuckles of her hand, still fisted in his hoodie, nudge against his breastbone. Somehow, her other hand finds one of his and grips at his index and middle finger, like a kid. “Look at me,” she says. Demands. Begs. “Zuko, please, _look at me_.”

Obeying the plea in her voice might break him. Zuko looks anyway.

And she’s tear stained, yes. And she’s biting her lower lip, yes. And she’s still a goddamn revelation, yes.

“I can never turn my back on people who need me.”

And no, he doesn’t break.

* * *

Things go back to normal.

(See: Zuko serves out his sentence and returns to classes. See: Zuko eats lunch with Katara, and Sokka, and Suki, and the rest of their extended group of friends. See: Zuko goes to ultimate frisbee practice and pizza afterwards. See: Zuko crams for finals on the floor of the Foster’s living room.)

Things don’t really go back to normal.

(See: It’s like every morning he woke up after his mother left and remembered she was gone. See: It’s like every morning he woke up after the “accident” and remembered he should be dead. See: It’s like every morning he wakes up.)

Things go back to normal.

* * *

 

Over winter break, Uncle takes him to Ember Cove. It’s every flashback to summer and winter vacations from his childhood. (Minus his sister, and his cousin, and his mother. ) They eat more than they should and build one sandcastle when the nostalgia strikes. Uncle flirts horribly with every woman over twenty. Zuko spends almost all his time in the ocean.

It’s one in the goddamn morning on Christmas Day when Katara calls him. Zuko answers more from habit than conscious choice.

“What?” he mumbles. Uncle’s snoring. It’s a balmy 60 degrees out, so Zuko rolls out of bed and stumbles out onto the porch. Quiet settles as soon as the door closes behind him. Enough that his brain starts to actually register the person on the other end of the line. “Katara?”

There’s a nervous half-laugh. “Yeah, of course. What other girl would call you in the middle of the night?”

Not a fucking one. Even Mai’d never bothered to call him in the middle of the night. This is purely Katara’s province. Until now it’d never bothered him. But. “Katara, it’s one in the morning. Why are you calling?”

Katara’s quiet so long he almost assumes she hung up and he just missed it. Pulls his phone away so he can eye it and everything. But no, the call’s still going, seconds ticking away. Zuko’s just put it back up to his ear when she says, “I miss you.”

Exhaustion sets in immediately. It’s a marrow deep ache he can’t shake off and it’s been in him all this time. But now he can’t fight it off. All he can do is hope she’ll for once let it go.  “Katara, I can’t do this right now.”

“My mother died saving me.”

The words hit him like a blow. Zuko goes stumbling back into the railing of the porch. Wood scrapes against his bared hip and a splinter lodges into his skin. “Fuck,” he growls.

It’s a habitual response to pain but she doesn’t know that, because she laughs on the other end all high pitched and nervous and kind of screechy like she’s holding back tears. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck.” Another laugh and it’s awful. Zuko hates it. Wants to grab her through the phone and shake her and hold her until she just _stops_.

Like she’s heard him through the universe, she stops. Abrupt. Jagged. “Can you just listen?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

"I was four. I’d been over at a neighbor’s house. Playing with Sokka. The neighbor, he was more friends with Sokka than me, and they were being mean. I went home.” On the other end of the line, there’s a shaky inhale, but she keeps going. “There was a man there. Talking to my mother. I was scared, but she told me it was alright, that I should go back to the neighbor’s and keep playing. The man said I had to stay. She begged him to let me go. And then she told me to run.”

The thing is, Zuko already knows how this story ends, because he’s been to her house and seen the holes. Because she’s already told him the punchline. Because their lives are fairytales without happy endings. Still he’s not prepared.

“I ran. There was this noise behind me. My mom screamed. I went and the neighbor’s mom called the cops. Called my dad. And I was supposed to stay but I didn’t. I couldn’t. While she wasn’t looking I went back home.”

God, he’s not fucking prepared.

“My mom was dead. She was on the kitchen floor. There was so much blood. There was so much... And it was my _fault_.”

Katara’s crying. Sobbing. Even without seeing her, he knows that she’s shaking, arms wrapped tight around her middle, trying to physically hold in all that wants to get out.

“I miss you.” There’s a rawness in her voice that almost makes him cringe. “I made friends with you at first because you seemed lonely but _I was lonely too_.”

Zuko clenches his eyes shut and tips his head back. Salt stings his cheeks. When did he start crying? “I miss you too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took almost ten months but we're back at it again with more High School AU. Light on the "high school" in this chapter. But for a good cause? There's going to be one more chapter after this, so we're in the home (ahahahaha bad puns) stretch. Thank you again for all the kind feedback on my trash and a reminder that you can hit me up on Tumblr if you want to like, actually interact with me, idk?

Uncle doesn’t complain that he spends a lot of their remaining vacation taking pictures and texting. Actually, once Uncle catches on that it’s Katara on the other end, he makes a game out of finding things for Zuko to tell Katara about. It’s both obnoxious and endearing. Because he feels generous, Zuko decides it’s more endearing than obnoxious, and humors his Uncle.

(It helps that Uncle found the weird statue of a crab in hula gear that had Katara laughing so hard that Sokka was able to steal her phone and get a picture of her mid-cackle.)

But their last night in Ember Cove, Zuko leaves the phone in their room and goes out onto the porch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Katara it’s just that he’s realized soon they’re going to have to actually talk about things that matter again instead of whatever dumb thing they just snapped a picture of. Uncle is out on the porch with a cup of tea. When Zuko takes a seat on the porch steps, Uncle says, “It is a beautiful night. Very peaceful.”

With a sigh, Zuko lets his head thump back against the railing and wonders how he’s supposed to explain any of this. Part of him had hoped Uncle would pry. Instead, it seems that his Uncle is feeling philosophical enough to let Zuko come to him. Fuck.

It takes almost a half hour for Zuko to figure out what he needs to say. During that time Uncle finishes his first cup of tea in slow, deliberate sips. Then rises and disappears back into their rented cabin to make himself another cup. Zuko finds the exact words as Uncle emerges back into the humid night and takes a seat in the well-worn rocking chair he favors. There’s a creak from the chair and a satisfied hum from Uncle as he takes the first sip of his fresh cup. Zuko breathes in deep and says:

“Katara knows about Mom. I didn’t tell her but she knew. That’s why she became my friend. Because she felt bad for me and wanted to fix me. Help me. I don’t know.” The old frustration surges up. Fresh and raw as it had been the first time. He can feel his hands curling into fists but he doesn’t try to stop it. Just lets the feeling rush through him because he needs to do this. Bleed the poison out of this wound. He just doesn’t want to hurt her again. “That’s why I didn’t talk to her. Because it’s fucked up. Making someone your friend so you can fix them. But she called. Christmas morning. Told me that her mom died and she blames herself and that’s why she does it. Fixes people. Helps them. Whatever it is she does. I don’t want to be a fucking project to her but she needs me and I don’t know how to forgive her but I can’t—”

There are no more words and he’s honestly amazed he made it this far. It feels like the inside of his mouth has been all cut up with razor blades, like he needs to punch something to focus the pain, like he’s exactly the kind of wounded creature who needs a beautiful girl to save him. Zuko knows his eyes are pleading as he looks at his Uncle.

“Katara is?” Uncle says. Philosophically.

Zuko launches to his feet and begins to pace across the width of the porch. “I don’t know. Katara’s…Katara.” Pacing isn’t helping but he knows he can’t vent his anger by hitting something. So he growls, and tangles his fingers in his hair, and clenches his eyes shut. “Katara is someone gentle, and smart, and fierce. She sees all the worst things about life and then decides she can somehow change it. She takes in people because they need it, not because they deserve it. She stays kind even though nothing else is kind. She demands a better world.” Without meaning to his feet come to a stop. He opens his eyes. His hands slide from his hair to fall to his sides. “She makes me want to demand a better world.”

Out here the light is pretty shitty. Reliant on the small lamps that light the pathways between cabins and the heavy moon above them. But Zuko’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the faint gleam to Uncle’s eyes. Or the hoarse edge as he says, “Then the question is, nephew, if your pride is worth more than all that Katara is.”

No. It’s not.

* * *

**Zuko Himura 11:48PM** _we need to talk when i get back_

**Katara Foster 11:49PM** _i know_

* * *

It takes them all day to get back to Republic City. They nearly die once because Uncle sees a tea shop and whips their car across five lanes of traffic to get at it. When they pull into the driveway there’s a good six inches of fresh snow that’ll need to be cleared tomorrow. Zuko goes straight upstairs because a week and a half solid of socializing with Uncle is exhausting. (It’s good, too, in a way that he can’t articulate.) After kicking the door shut and dropping his bags, he collapses face first onto his bed, ready to take the world’s longest nap.

The world’s longest nap is only about three hours long.

Zuko wakes up blearily to the faint whine of the tea kettle. It stops but he’s awake, now, so he half rolls onto his side. For a while he just lays there. Cocooned in the warm dark, looking out the window, at fresh snow that swirls backlit against streetlights. Somehow the room feels safe, and cozy, and less like a place he just goes to fall asleep or do homework. The therapist would call that progress if he still went to them every Tuesday.

Falling snow reminds him of Katara. Of that day when they went to the coffee shop. With a groan that sounds more like a growl he rolls onto his back and puts an arm behind his head. The hand resting on his stomach taps out a rhythm.

Even a month later his body remembers her—warm and small and laughing—cuddled against him. It had seemed like too much to handle at the time. What kind of loser jerks off to the memory of giving a girl a piggy back ride? But now he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d pulled her into an alley that day and kissed her. Maybe everything would’ve been different if he’d been braver. Probably not.

Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, he fishes out his phone and turns it on. Light flares brilliant and white and makes him squint. It’s almost eight. He ignores the next texts from Sokka, the Ultimate Frisbee group chat, and an unknown number to pull up Katara’s conversation.

**Katara Foster 2:49PM** _text me when you get home k?_

Feeling a little like a jerk, he taps in, _got home a couple hours ago but needed a nap_. Then he erases that and sends _home_ instead. That makes him feel more like a jerk but he’s barely had time to feel the full weight of his jerkish behavior when the three little dots that signal an incoming response pop up.

**Katara Foster 7:53PM** _good_

**Katara Foster 7:54PM** _are you like super tired?_

Even with the nap he feels kind of worn at the edges. But he dutifully says _not really why?_ She reads the message immediately but it takes a full six minutes for her to reply. Zuko imagines it might be because Sokka started doing something obnoxious or GranGran needed help with something. That doesn’t help the nerves. Especially when the three dots pop up and just. Stay there. Taunting him.

**Katara Foster 8:02PM** _meet me at the coffee shop_

**Katara Foster 8:02PM** _please_

* * *

Of course she’s beaten him there. She’s hunched over a steaming cup of coffee that’s cradled in her hands. When the bell above the doorway goes off she looks up, instinctively but not hopefully, like she’s already done this a few times. Except this time it’s actually him. Or at least he assumes that’s why her entire face lights up and she straightens her shoulders and the coffee cup is left forgotten on the table. Zuko barely has time to brace himself and open his arms before she’s in them, face pressed tight into his chest, fingers digging deep into his leather jacket.

“Hey,” he says. It feels like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs and it’s not just because she slammed into him. One arm’s curled around her waist reflexively but he tries to smooth the other over the back of her skull because he’s fairly certain she’s shaking. “Hey, are you okay?”

Katara pulls back very carefully but stays in his arms. It’s okay. Now that he’s touching her, he’s not sure he could let her go, even with everyone in the coffee shop eyeing them. He can’t remember if she’s always felt this delicate or if maybe he only thinks she feels that way because he knows she’s not invincible now. Zuko wants to pull her closer and wrap her up in his jacket. Keep her safe for once.

“I’m okay, I’m just so glad you’re here,” she says. There’s a very soft lilt to her voice that makes him think she’s holding back tears.

Not thinking about the consequences, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, lets himself stay there for a moment as he breathes in the scent of her. He pulls back. Katara’s got her eyes closed. The lines of her face are still and easy in a way they hadn’t been before and he realizes suddenly how tense she’d actually been. Slowly, like someone coming up from a deep dive, she opens her eyes.

“I’m here,” he says. Their eyes lock. It occurs to him that she is steel and glass layered together so firmly that he’s not sure if he’s glimpsing the vulnerability beneath her strength or the courage beneath her fragility. “I’m here,” he promises.

* * *

Somehow they manage to completely avoid talking about it.

At first, in those hazy moments in the coffee shop in the hour before closing, Zuko thinks maybe it’s because they’re still too raw. Or because the coffee shop is too public. Or even because they’re too enamored of being around each other again, their knees bumping under the table, her hand eventually settling on his bare forearm like an anchor.

But the last three days of winter break go by and they’re around each other constantly. They have the opportunity. It’s just that they don’t want to, maybe. So it’s like:

One day, they’re sledding in the park with everyone from the Foster’s neighborhood, including one boy with a shaved head who watches Zuko with intense suspicion. Another day, they’re walking through the mall with Sokka and Suki, playing with the Christmas decorations that haven’t been stripped down yet. That last day, they’re going to the indoor pool at the local YMCA so Katara can do some back to school thing for underprivileged elementary students, and Zuko can’t even remember how he got dragged into this when he hates the pool but it’s worth it for the way Katara smiles at him over the heads of thirteen shrieking eight year olds.

After the YMCA, Katara offers to drive him home but Zuko says he’ll walk. It’s only a mile and a half. It’s not even snowing now. What he doesn’t say is he needs time to think because it finally occurred to him as she ruffled her towel over his chlorine damp hair that she’s waiting on him.

* * *

Walking is a bad idea. He wakes up the next morning with a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and the kind of vague headache that feels like being underwater. Uncle takes one look at him and says to text Katara for the homework.

* * *

The door to his bedroom creaks open. Uncle left him alone after lunch to nap. He’s not sure if he actually slept. It feels like maybe he has.

“No more tea,” he groans. Uncle force fed him an entire pot, he’s pretty sure, and his throat feels better but if he never has to drink another cup it’ll be too soon.

Someone laughs and says, “You sound terrible.” Dread, or mucus, clogs his airways as he turns over to face the doorway. Hazy winter sunlight softens her edges. Zuko watches, feeling bemused and enchanted, as she pushes up the sleeves of her loose cable knit sweater to her elbows and puts her hands on her hips. Purposeful. Amused. Fond. Home improvement stores don’t have paint that can match the blue of her eyes. Zuko can’t breathe and he’s pretty sure it’s not just because he’s needed to blow his nose for the last nine minutes. “You _look_ terrible.”

“You’re awful,” he says. Rolling away from her, he fishes around in the covers for his little packet of Kleenex. Nothing immediately meets his fingers. So he tries to sniffle without it being loud just to get the worst of the snot controlled. Which of course means it seems to echo off every available surface.

Another laugh, muffled this time. “Wait, I need a picture for Sokka.” Floorboards creak beneath her weight and he hears a heavy bag dropping to the floor. The bed dips beneath her as she puts a knee on the edge.

“No,” Zuko says. With great feeling.

“Aw, c’mon,” she says. One day he’s going to figure out how she can sound teasing and worried at the same time. Leaning over him, she grabs the packet of Kleenex and puts it into his hand. “A picture for me then?”

“ _No_ ,” he says. With even greater feeling.

Katara’s lower lip juts out just a bit. If she’s trying for a convincing pout then she’s failing because he knows what he genuine pouts look like. They involve a slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes, like she’s trying not to cry. It’s a manipulative pout and he’s on to her. “But…” she says. “I need it.”

“Why?”

One of her shoulders lifts in a shrug. “To prove a point. Mostly to Song and Jin. This would prove that you are not handsome and brooding at all times.” Arguably, he’s not handsome at any times. He can’t say much about the brooding. Why Katara would care about any of this in the first place he can’t imagine. “None of the girls at school would think you were some mysterious bad boy if they could see you with a runny nose.”

Since he clearly has no fucking dignity left as she looms over him and confirms that he looks exactly as pathetic as he feels, and that she plans on letting everyone relevant in his age group know as much, he makes deliberate eye contact and blows his nose in a fresh Kleenex. Being herself, Katara maintains eye contact, and then once he’s done goes, “Feel better?” It’s a challenge. Like he’s ridiculously gross and she knows they’re both acknowledging that fact. But also like she wants him to know she saw that petty display of pissiness and she’s above it. Zuko could tell her she doesn’t have to bother. Everyone already knows she’s the most terrifying girl in school. Reaching toward his nightstand, she grabs an entire box of Kleenex, probably one that Uncle left during one of Zuko’s many naps. Handing it to him, she says, “I think you need these.”

“I might hate you,” he says, batting the box away so it thumps onto the floor.

There’s a flicker behind her expression. Fleeting helplessness writ large in the way her eyebrows nudge toward one another and her teeth catch her lower lip. Gone before most people would really catch it. But he caught it and now he’s reminded that she’s not the most terrifying girl in school when it comes to him.

Feeling like a jerk, _again_ , he reaches out and wraps a hand around her wrist. It’s cool to the touch because of his fever. Rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of her inner arm, he says, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I shouldn’t have pushed. You don’t…” It kills him a little, how she pauses, her eyes settled on some loose thread in his comforter. Even though he knows she won’t say it he knows what she’s thinking. _You don’t let yourself be vulnerable_. Disappointment clings to those unspoken words. Because Katara’s waiting on him. After giving him all the rawest parts of herself on a silver platter. Katara’s waiting on him. Or maybe not, because her eyes are shuttered and her smile now is strained, and she’s saying, “I’m sorry,” like it’s an absolution.

Panic claws at him and he fumbles for explanations. Zuko’s never been good with words and sick muddled as he is they refuse to come at all. In his mind there are the memories—of being sick after his mother left and burning his hand on the stove while he made chicken noodle soup because his father would not feed him if he was weak and he hadn’t eaten for two days—that he needs to share with her so she’ll understand but he can’t figure out how and she’s standing up with that same strained smile as she murmurs goodbyes about letting him rest.

If he lets her go now, he thinks, there will never be another chance.

Zuko uses his grip on her wrist to tug her hand to his face. Most of the skin of his scar is dead, nothing to feel there but pressure and the occasional pain that comes with sudden weather front, but he swears he can feel the rasp of her fingertips as they settle over the ruined skin. Katara doesn’t look like she’s breathing. “Stay.”

Now she sucks in a shaky breath. Her free arm wraps around her own waist like she’s trying to hold herself together. “Why?” she asks. “You haven’t forgiven me. You haven’t even asked if I still—”

Focusing on her glassy eyes, he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Katara lets out a choked sound and pulls her hand free of his grasp. Wraps her other arm around herself. “The hell it doesn’t,” she says.

Later, he thinks he’ll try to figure out how things went this bad this fast. How they got from gentle teasing to restrained tears. How they even managed to reach this point in the first place instead of exploding or fizzling out so much earlier.

But this, at least, he has words for. Zuko’s voice is hoarse and awful and steady and he tries to gentle it for her but he has to say it, whether she wants it or not, because he can’t lose her like this. “I realized I’m going to choose you being in my life because I can’t imagine not choosing you.” In the hazy winter sunlight, she’s still soft at the edges and so beautiful it aches, and he’s willing to beg. “Please,” he whispers, “Stay.”

Tears build like a flash flood in her eyes and go spilling down her cheeks. One of her knees bumps his ribs as she scrambles onto the bed and tumbles into him. Ignoring that he’s sick and gross and wearing a sweat stained tee she crawls under the covers and presses against him full length. All their limbs are tangled up together. It feels natural to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer. Anchor her into him so that maybe the world will stop tilting wildly on its axis or maybe that’s just his inner eardrums protesting. But when she touches his scar again it’s achingly gentle and she’s saying “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”


End file.
